Hair Dye and Anti-plastic

Disclaimer: Doctor Who does not belong to me, please don't sue.

A/N: I have been away for a while, and I'm sorry. Life has been rather getting to me of late, and I have exams coming up. Anyway, here it is. Chapter Three. I would have uploaded it sooner but Fanfiction was playing up. Although as it stands I've managed to post it on the anniversary of the coalition. Happy Anniversary, Mr Clegg and Mr Cameron. Apparently the honeymoon period is over for them now, and Cameron's bought Clegg a 'longer leash' - wasn't that nice of him?

Anyway, allons-y!


One question now remained; how, if Torchwood Three had been destroyed and the British Government could no longer be trusted, were they going to get near the Prime Minister?

The Doctor had suggested UNIT. The Master had scoffed and pointed out that Martha now worked for UNIT, and revealed that, shockingly, he would rather not be shot in the head by a crazed ex-medical student.

So it seemed as though the two Time Lords were going to have to sort this particular mess out by themselves. Which, understandably, neither of them was too thrilled about.

The Doctor sighed. He hadn't realised how much he relied on the people of Earth. Usually when there was a crisis, he had some back up somewhere. But now…now he was, basically, alone. And he didn't like it.

It didn't help that the Master had buggered off to some forgotten corner of the TARDIS and was refusing to answer any of the Doctor's various attempts to contact him. He'd even tried restoring their old and long-since-forgotten psychic connection, but the Master's mind was like Fort Knox. And if he was honest the Doctor was somewhat out of practice.

So, with nothing else to do and a Prime Minister to depose (again) he wandered off to the TARDIS kitchen for a cuppa and a think.

They could always simply barge their way into 10 Downing Street and demand that the PM get lost. Somehow, though, the Doctor doubted that would go down well. It probably wouldn't be too difficult to for one of them to gain a position near the Prime Minister, but that would take too long; God knew what the Nestene Consciousness would have gotten up to by then.

So. What would they do? Obviously he couldn't let the Master be seen. And really the Doctor himself didn't fancy a job fetching tea and answering phones for a man made of living plastic.

Just as the Doctor had begun to fall into the deepest pits of despair the door flew open and the Master stood there framed in light from the hallway and holding in his right hand a small vial of blue fluid and a box.

"I have devised," he said, "a brilliant solution."

The Doctor blinked.

The Master flopped down in a chair opposite the other, somewhat bemused, Time Lord, and said: "I have here some anti-plastic," he waved the vial of fluid, "and some hair dye," he waved the box, "if I dye my hair and grow a beard – though I'm not exactly sure how good this body is for beards, I haven't got the right kind of jaw – I can get a job in 10 Downing Street. Wait, wait wait wait. Before you start protesting; I won't kill anyone, except Plastic Man, and I can get close to him in under a fortnight, if I play my cards right. What do you think?"

The Doctor opened his mouth. Closed it again. Sighed. Raised a hand. Lowered it. Finally, he frowned. "That's…that might actually work. That's…brilliant. You're brilliant. You see? You see what you can do if you only try? Think how much good you'll be doing! It's things like this that make people go down in history, you know."

"No, making your horse a senator makes you go down in history. Hopefully no one will know about this. So, no one will remember me. At all." The Master looked dangerously close to pouting.

The Doctor rolled his eyes and sprang up from the chair. "Never mind that. Now, Downing Street? Allons-y!"

And aller they did. Well, sort of. The Master quickly realised that before he dyed his hair he'd probably have to grow his hair. So, before they could put into place their plan they would have to wait.

The Doctor did not like waiting. He was itching to get going, to set the TARDIS coordinates and begin, and set the plan in motion.

The Master, on the other hand, was much more patient. He watched the Doctor's obvious discomfort with something akin to amusement, and had to contain fits of hysterical laughter when he realised that the Doctor had not noticed that his captive's hair had grown long enough and the beginnings of a beard – sadly all the Master's latest body could achieve – had appeared around his jaw.

It was only when he finally deigned to get out the hair dye, which he chose not to question the presence of, and thoroughly bleach his hair, that the Doctor finally seemed to realise a difference.

"Oh! You're…blonde…"

The Master grinned. "Yup. Well, I do know how much you like them." He winked. Winked.

The Doctor stammered and swallowed and said that they should probably be going then. The Master agreed that yes, they probably should.

They hadn't expected the weather to be so good. It was early June, but even so it was gloriously sunny and at least twenty-five degrees. The Doctor, who still refused to let the Master anywhere near the TARDIS controls, had chosen to land them in St James' Park and take the scenic route to Downing Street.

"It is," pointed out the Master very unhelpfully, "incredibly romantic out here, don't you think?"

"Shut up."

"So," the Doctor side-stepped round a woman with a pram and raised his over-active left eyebrow, "who are you? And, how old are you?"

The Master sighed. "Sam Wood. 36, born in Manchester, no family left. At least that part's true. Well, sort of."

The Doctor pulled a face at that and tugged on his ear. That was one particular wedding he'd rather forget, thank you very much.

They arrived, at last, at the gates to Downing Street, and the Master, who had already, somehow, managed to procure for himself a job, presented his ID and wandered off.

Against his better judgement, the Doctor waved.

There was little left for the Time Lord to do now except potter. He discovered a small café not too long after he set off and, having 'borrowed' ten pounds from an obliging cash point, decided to buy himself a cup of tea.

He was halfway through an astonishingly good cup of Earl Grey and a rather dog-eared copy of Christopher and His Kind that he'd dug out of the TARDIS library when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

Bored out of my skull. I hate you.

M

The Doctor grinned, despite himself, and wondered whether or not he should reply.

In the end, he settled on something that was not too cruel but still made it perfectly clear that he felt any injustices the Master suffered were well deserved.

It's your own fault, you know.

It'll be over soon. See you in the TARDIS this evening.

D

He was still wondering whether or not this was a good idea. Letting the Master loose on the British Government again, so soon after his capture…and despite his apparent willingness to help he was still unstable. Very unstable. Rassilon knew what he'd get up to in the corridors of power, even if he was just answering phones and fetching coffee. Although, now the Doctor thought about it, that kind of work may actually drive him even more insane.

It was madness. Pure insanity, what was he thinking? He'd let sentiment and a desire to forgive override his sense. He couldn't let the Master do this. It would be an act of such gross neglect as to almost count as genocide.

No. The Master would have to go.